


God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another

by ThirdActLove



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Related, Gun Violence, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdActLove/pseuds/ThirdActLove
Summary: The first time Captain Unger saves John McClane’s life, it is almost too late.
Relationships: Clifford Unger/John Blake McClane, Die-Hardman/Clifford Unger
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107





	God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of Tommie Earl Jenkins' final, tearful cut-scene performance and the way he screamed, (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) "I loved him!" as if it was being dug out of his body with a hatchet.
> 
> The title is a quote from William Shakespeare's Hamlet. This fic is inspired by this art:   
https://twitter.com/theyoungdoyler/status/1196862374659145729?s=19
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated. Enjoy!

The first time Captain Unger saves John McClane’s life, it is almost too late.

John is standing, or he is trying to. The corpses reach his hips and he cannot tell if their blood or his own dyes his uniform. He struggles for breath, but every gulp is useless; the air is stained with sweat and sorrow, tainted with misery and gunpowder. It is so thick that inhaling only brings him closer to collapsing.

His gun is gone. He fights with a knife, a present from his Captain. It’s not special. It’s a token for anyone Unger chooses to place on his personal team. The elite. The shadows of Special Forces.

John is not special. All that talk of the survivor, of the man who can’t be killed. People think he’s immortal. Hell, for a long time, John wakes up smiling because of the fame. But he’s not smiling now. Now he’s biting his chapped lips so hard they bleed. Copper and salt fill his mouth, mixing with the saliva and the soot.

_There is not supposed to be this much green when you die_, he thinks. Grass, leaves, bushes. The color pervades even the blackest uniforms, the scarlet fire, and the muddy ground. Green is supposed to signify life.

All John can see is death.

One bullet catches John in the shoulder and he drops his knife. It clatters uselessly across the bodies and the rocks. John is fascinated by the sunlight reflecting off its unclean edge. He cannot tear his eyes away, even when he hears an enemy soldier reload not three feet away. John accepts his failure, accepts it with closed eyes and grim determination.

Two hands grip his shoulders. John cries out, pain like lightning crackling through the damaged part of his right arm. He is horrified--if not slightly impressed--that the enemy soldier has decided to end it in close combat. It’s brutal and messy. It’s war at its finest.

But the enemy cradles John’s face in steady, calloused hands. Captain Unger quips, “Leaving so soon?”

John opens his eyes. He laughs, somehow not surprised at all that he is being pulled out of the wreckage and carried over Captain Unger’s shoulders to their field medic.

Later, he is struggling to button up his uniform, cold dog tags colliding with his bare skin. John scowls at the recalcitrant arm. He wills the pain away, yet the muscles refuse to cooperate.

“Here,” Captain Unger offers. His fingers are quick, deft. Once he is finished, his absence tugs at John, and he moves forward, connected by an invisible thread. Losing balance, he falls against the captain’s back, arms wound around the man’s chest, hands outstretched and waiting.

Captain Unger presses John’s knife into his hand, the blade clean, polished. “Don’t die so easy next time,” the captain whispers.

He leaves like smoke, only the scent and sensation remaining.

And so it goes: John’s close-calls and Captain Unger’s daring rescues. John reminds himself every time that he is not special. It is Unger’s duty to save his comrades, especially his personally selected unit. John is also an excellent soldier--when he’s not sticking himself in impossible situations--which makes him a valuable asset, a man whose presence at Unger’s side is in his best interest to keep.

The fourth time the captain saves John McClane’s life, John has already flatlined.

He wakes once on a charcoal shoreline, the water lapping at his ankles. There is no pain, only calm water, an endless horizon, and a cool breeze. When he awakens the second time, he is in so much agony he thrashes and injures himself even further. The doctors sedate him.

The third time, John adjusts slowly to his surroundings. His world is much whiter than before. Breathing in, he is shocked to discover ammonia and, more bewilderingly, lavender. The sheets beneath his body are crisp yet impossibly soft, or at least softer than the barracks or the ground.

Someone is holding his hand.

“Cli--Captain?” John swallows the familiarity. His throat is a desert, and his words sound as if he’s been unconscious for days.

Captain Unger squeezes John’s hand, then withdraws. John does not possess the strength to reach for him again, but perhaps his eyes betray his intentions, because the captain returns, interlocking their fingers on top of John’s chest.

“That was a close one,” John says.

The other man is quiet. Then, he chuckles into the sliest of smiles and replies, “They’re calling you Die Hardman.”

John laughs, aggravating the stitches in his side. A nurse comes over to give him water and check his vitals. She explains the severity of the wound as well as the healing time, frowning at the captain when he asks how soon John can come back to the field.

Youth lends John bravery and, in the trade, takes his judgement. He fights before the doctor wants him fighting, and fights harder than he ever has. There are blisters on his hands and feet; deep, red, angry sores that appear almost daily. Unger’s unit trudges through the jungle, killing. John avoids dying.

Night falls on their campsite with a sky full of stars and mosquitoes. They’ve commandeered a cabin of sorts for a few days while they await orders. Nets hang around hammocks, masking the people inside. The men and women read, talk, drink, and sleep. The guys on watch play cards on the porch.

Captain Unger is in the room that used to be a bedroom. It has been gutted, repurposed as an office-slash-command-center with all the communications devices they could carry with them from the last site. All that remains of the old room is a frayed green couch.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

John watches Unger light a cigarette and take a long drag before he answers, “At ease, soldier.”

He relaxes out of his salute. There is a carefully built dam in his chest that he fears is about to burst. His want presses against the walls like an ocean of acid, eating at any resolve. He inhales, exhales, and lets out a sound that might be a sob.

“I wanted to tell you, sir, before it becomes a problem.” His body jerks toward the couch, a comfortable reflex, but he holds himself standing. “You deserve to know.”

Unger cocks his head, his lips still pursed around his cigarette. Smoke curls around his cheekbones. He crosses the distance between them and farther still, shutting the door behind John, separating them from the rest of the troops.

With their chattering silenced, John is acutely aware of Unger’s footsteps and breaths. Insects chirp outside the open windows. The summer suffocates John, and he is so dizzy, but feels clearer than he ever has.

“Don’t say it,” the captain urges, and then the cigarette is gone, and then his hand is on John’s jaw, imprisoning the admission inside a cage of teeth.

John’s pulse is rapid fire, a machine gun. Captain Unger thumbs a spot on John’s throat as gently and cautiously as he’d touch a trigger. He stares before his eyes wander, an intense perusal, admiring what he’s been offered. It is hunger and admiration and sweetness.

Captain Unger, no--”_Cliff,_” John murmurs, and any proprietary they’ve established unravels instantaneously. Cliff tastes like nicotine. John has never understood the appeal of smoking until this night.

They stay together until the sun comes up. John leaves when the gold beams caress Cliff’s skin; John figures he’s had Cliff long enough, and should probably share now.

Cliff--no, Captain Unger--buttons up his uniform and laces up his boots.

John says, “Good morning, sir.” And John leaves.


End file.
